


not so bad a thing

by CosmicTurnabout



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Blood and Gore, Gen, Patch 5.0: Shadowbringers Spoilers, Torture, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-12
Updated: 2019-12-12
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:33:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21763801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CosmicTurnabout/pseuds/CosmicTurnabout
Summary: During a crucial moment, Emet-Selch lets anger get the best of him.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 13





	not so bad a thing

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote a nasty piece. Please mind the tags. Also caveat that I may have muddled some story details here for the sake of the fic. 
> 
> That said, you may still want to avoid this if you really like the Crystal Exarch.

The Exarch was bleeding freely in Emet-Selch’s arms, much more than he had expected. He frowned at the mess darkening leather and fur trim, wavering some in his pace as he neared the edge of the rock; perhaps his aim with the machinist’s pistol—now hanging weighty on his hip—had been too good. He took a few steps more and, suddenly frustrated, set the Mystel down none too gently, his face crumpling in pain on impact with the hard ground.  
  
 _Mystel_? thought Emet-Selch absently as he straightened up, wondering why the word felt strange even unspoken. _Ah, yes. Miqo’te. They are Miqo’te on the Source. We have both of us been on the First too long._  
  
The Exarch coughed, blood shining wetly on his lips. His ears gave fervent twitches, as if trying to will energy into the rest of his body. It seemed to have little effect. His teeth were gritted, and he had thrown one arm protectively over the wound in his chest—the arm yet untainted by the Crystal Tower, Emet-Selch noticed—not that it would do any good now.  
  
Yes, Emet-Selch suspected his shot had been too precise after all. Maybe he’d killed the Exarch. That would be just bloody wonderful, for one entire phase of his plan to explode in his face because he’d had the misfortune to be too godsdamned accurate. Well, at least the hero would not have any way to dispose of their excess Light if the Exarch died. And it was not as if he had no time to probe his captive for information. He would have to do it with some speed, though.  
  
Emet-Selch had drawn deep from the well of his magicks to create this place, so much so that he had had to carry the Exarch here physically rather than spirit him along on wind as he might normally have done. Far, far away loomed the architecture of ancient Amaurot, and even further below blinked myriad lights of destruction, fire and aether leaping and crashing at intervals into the black surface of the star. They were currently standing on a shard of floating rock, the terminus of his recreation of Amaurot’s doom. Several other jagged pieces of earth floated near the rock, like a small chain of islands in empty air. This recreation was an abstraction of sorts; it was not exactly how Amaurot or the star had looked in truth, but it was close enough to his memories, and enhanced with a few of his own special embellishments. He had been magnificently angry—he had wanted to create a gauntlet for the hero and their companions, and after all that, he did not think he had the power in him to bring the Exarch back from the brink.  
  
“You will tell me exactly how the Crystal Tower works.” Emet-Selch crossed his arms and slouched to one side. His back ached, and his patience had dwindled to bare stores long ago. “I am familiar with the Tower, of course, but it is you who have commandeered it for generations, and you must know it exceedingly well. Oh, come now, you needn’t make that face, Exarch. You’ve nothing else to lose at this juncture.”  
  
The Crystal Exarch was looking at him with darkening eyes. “Even if I were to divulge everything I know, there would not be... enough time in which to do it.” He coughed again, a ragged, weak sound. “I am going to die, as surely as the Light shines down on the Empty.” Even the simple act of speaking seemed to leech life from him, his face growing paler and paler by the second. Still, he had found some humor in the situation, the scowl leveled at Emet-Selch turning into a small smile. “You have killed me, Ascian.”  
  
 _He yet has the gall to state plainly what I suspect. Damn it all!_  
  
Emet-Selch ignored the comments. “Tell me how you use the Tower to travel through time.” He began pacing in front of the Exarch, impatient. “I will be able to control it if I have a basic idea of the logic behind how it functions. I am the architect of the bloody Allagan Empire, after all. I had more than a hand in its creation.”  
  
The Miqo’te shook his head. “Not enough time... even for that, I am afraid.” He looked almost sad to admit it.  
  
Emet-Selch turned on his heel, the stone making a neat scraping sound beneath his boots. He was a spare ten paces from the edge of the rock now, looking out over the devastation of the star. Plumes of pure destructive aether arced up from the turmoil, twisting in wild loops before splashing back down to the boiling surface. Fetid gusts of air, hot and bone-dry, billowed up from those lashes of energy, flaring Emet-Selch’s coat behind him and sweeping hair into his eyes. He had created all of this, of course, but he was distantly surprised he could feel the heat so strongly, being so far away.  
  
“Why... did you bring me here?” asked the Crystal Exarch, breaking the silence that stretched between them.  
  
“That doesn’t matter.” Truthfully, Emet-Selch was not actually sure why he had done it. He could have left the Exarch hidden somewhere else in Amaurot to pick at his brain later, once the hero and their companions were defeated. Instead, he had brought him here, to the end of his recreation. He had to admit, circumstances being what they were, that he was not thinking as clearly as he usually did.  
  
“Very well. I... suppose you have no reason to tell me that. But... I begin to think you made a mistake, Emet-Selch.” A hint of amusement entered the Exarch’s voice, and it set the space between Emet-Selch’s shoulder blades to prickling. That smile, like a thorn under his nail. _All I need now is this fool of a Miqo’te laughing at me while he bleeds out_! “You did not mean for me to die like this. You did not mean... for me to die at all.”  
  
Emet-Selch felt the color rising to his face. The heat had not touched him, not really, but anger had. _He’s right, damn him to all his seven hells!_  
  
“And... unless I miss my guess... I doubt you can make me whole again. Not as spent as you are.”  
  
Now Emet-Selch’s fingers dug into his arms; he could almost feel them against his skin through the leather. “You’re awfully cheerful for one so close to death.” His teeth were locked together such that he was surprised the words came out clearly at all.  
  
“You admit it, then.”  
  
“Yes. Yes, I admit it!” Emet-Selch threw his hands into the air. “You are likely a dead man. Even so, do you really expect to die without telling me anything? I can make it even harder for you, you know. The dying. Or I can make it a great deal easier. You need only answer my question in as few words as possible.” He did not plan on wasting any energy pursuing either of those options, exactly, but the Exarch did not need to know that.  
  
“You... cannot persuade me this way.” The Exarch’s smile was sad now. He coughed once more, small trails of blood staining his teeth, trickling from his lips to the ground. “I will tell you nothing. I would have told you nothing... no matter what. I did not live this long just to give up my secrets to those I swore to defeat. Even at... the knife-edge of death.”  
  
Nobly defiant as always. Emet-Selch saw that black blood was pooling beneath the Miqo’te, creeping out from under his cloak. The bullet must have pierced him right through, somewhere between the heart and lung. He breathed hard, almost panting now, and sweat beaded his forehead, running down to mingle with the blood ringing his mouth.  
  
“Damn it. Damn it all!” Emet-Selch kicked aimlessly at the ground, sending small pebbles to flying through the thick air. The Exarch was telling the truth, he knew it; he would gladly waste away with his secrets, smiling all the while.  
  
“I will die soon.” It was not a question.  
  
“Yes. You will.” Emet-Selch practically sneered the words, though whether the derision was aimed at the Exarch or himself he could not say.  
  
The Exarch was quiet for a beat, seemingly lost in thought. Then he shifted, trying to prop himself up on one elbow; it took no small amount of effort. “Surely we can... find some commonality here. At the end.”  
  
His tone piqued Emet-Selch’s curiosity. He sounded conciliatory. “Are you afraid, Exarch?” That would be some small reward, at least.  
  
“Afraid? No.” The Exarch found the energy for a rather vigorous shake of the head. “Saddened, yes. I will... not fulfill my purpose. This could ultimately be a victory for you, I admit, if the hero does not... find another way to expunge their Light.” He let the unspoken implication hang in the air. “I could think of better ways to go, certainly, though... I suppose I have no choice now. You are my companion at the edge of death... as you should be. You brought me to its doorstep.” The Exarch smiled weakly. “I must accept that.”  
  
“How very _magnanimous_ of you.”  
  
“I do not expect you to make a particularly agreeable companion, of course. My dying does... rob you of certain knowledge you seek. But I have a question of you, if you would... oblige me.”  
  
Despite everything, Emet-Selch nodded acquiescence. They were at a stalemate, in a manner of speaking, and perhaps he could learn something that would aid him in future if he let the Exarch babble to his last breath.  
  
“What is... what is dying like? You have died before, yes?”  
  
Emet-Selch snorted. _This_ was what he wanted to know? Mortals always yearned to plumb the depths of the most banal things. “Yes, I have. Many times. I thought you said you weren’t afraid of it.”  
  
“I am not. I am... curious, however.”  
  
“Dying is... it is simple. Perhaps the simplest thing I have ever done.” Emet-Selch shrugged. He was annoyed, almost, at having to explain the concept, but it was true. Compared to statecraft, to commanding armies, to drafting schematics for Allagan technology... it was as easy as falling asleep. “It may be miserable, it may be long, but in the end, it is simple.”  
  
“That is... some comfort,” said the Exarch, and he sounded like he meant it.  
  
“But death has never been final for me. I have found ways to return, or my superiors have conspired to summon me back to fulfill some goal or other. Would that it were not this way.” He sighed. “It is necessary, though, to achieve what we so greatly desire.”  
  
“And what good has it... really done you?” the Exarch asked.  
  
“What good?” Emet-Selch looked from the Exarch to the hellscape surrounding them, the flaring aether painting the sky a sickly red and yellow. Somewhere far away, a nameless beast roared. “You insult me. If you had lived a fraction of my lifespan, if you had seen a tenth of what I have, it would be clear as day to you why the Rejoining is necessary.” He was silent a moment, before adding, “You would thank me if you could see it, once we are through. Even in death.”  
  
“Perhaps,” said the Exarch, “but your story makes me wonder... when will you _truly_ die? We often call death the final resting place, but for Ascians...” The Miqo’te sounded almost playful; impending death had made him giddy, careless. “Rest never comes.” Emet-Selch felt a pang of jealousy then, stronger than anything he’d felt in years, lancing like a bolt through the chest.  
  
 _He looks at death as a comfortable bed, soft and welcoming, while I...!_  
  
A mad urge had him making a fist, and he found that he was leaning over suddenly, swatting the Exarch’s protective arm away and pressing down hard on his wound. The first scream of agony was met only with a further twisting of the fist, corkscrewing down into the ragged hole in his captive’s chest, making it larger, wetter, rounder. His magic had been drained, but he still had the raw physical energy of his body, and it blazed in him hot as a smith’s furnace. In seconds Emet-Selch’s right glove was slick and shining from the Miqo’te’s blood. It felt good to cause him pain, to make him sob with the all-consuming intensity of it.  
  
“You think you are better because you can _die_?” Emet-Selch snarled. The Exarch choked on words that never made it out. “You are a _worm_.”  
  
Pain was addictive. His own, and that of others. How long had he wallowed in it? How long had it been the only thing he had, the low guttering fire he stoked with relish? When he was cold, in his darkest moments, it had kept him warm. What would he be without it?  
  
He could have used the pistol—he had a shot or two left—but this was much more personal. Much more gratifying. He looked straight into the Exarch’s eyes, round and wide and rolling with pain as they were. Pain made all else fade to nothing. He knew that. _I’m torturing him to death_ , he thought, _and with no secrets uncovered_. He found without much surprise that he did not care. _Well, he is sure to die anyway. What difference how he goes?_ He gave a laugh, listening as the Exarch made soft animal noises, his ears pressed flat against his head, too wracked by pain to scream any longer.  
  
Emet-Selch had been in similar amounts of pain before, and he had almost grown to enjoy his own wounds. It was easier to reason with physical pain; at least that went away, eventually. He had died before, but it never ended. He had died in battle, he had died after long illness, he had died of old age. Some of those deaths had been as easy as falling asleep, some of them hard, and miserable, and long in coming. If nothing else, he had told the Exarch the truth. The only thing similar to that feeling of being on the brink of death were those times when he had overtaken aether. Sometimes drawing in magicks too deeply could cause great sorrow, a pushing against the skin as if the energy could rip its way out of one’s body. But there was something sickeningly sweet about it too, the feeling of being suffused with life that could only come before a plunge into the void. That was how he felt now. Aching to die.  
  
Finally Emet-Selch drew back, stood up. His arm was soaked crimson to the sleeve. A cursory glance down told him that he was positively covered in the Exarch’s blood, some of it drying, some of it new, and wet, and glistening. Well, he could have more clothing made quite easily. That was no issue.  
  
The hole in the Exarch’s chest was grotesque now, much larger than it had been, exposing both muscle and bone to air. When the poor wretch breathed, even faintly, the wound trembled, the blood bubbling in its small crater. Blood had seeped deeply into his cloak as well, turning it dark as shadow from his chest nearly down to the tops of his legs.  
  
The Exarch heaved out a rattling breath. His eyes were unfocused. “You... you will still... not make me talk.” _The fool still thinks I mean to interrogate him_. He sounded delirious. As well he would be. “This... this will be as good a place to die as any. As good a time.” He nodded, jerky with the ferocity of one who could not feel his body as he once had. “Yes, I-I think I should not hate to die here.”  
  
“Oh?” said Emet-Selch mockingly. “Will you not?” The Miqo’te would be dead very soon, he could tell, perhaps within a moment or two. He did not feel particularly badly for him. Most of all, now, he just wanted to be alone.  
  
 _I am tired. I am tired of all of it. The dying. The coming back. Even the plotting_. Yes, he schemed for Zodiark’s revival, for his fellows to be resurrected in glory; he wanted that more than he had ever wanted anything. But almost as equally, he wanted the bleak comfort of the void. It had crept up on him, it seemed, this desire. It was like his own shadow, growing longer and longer as the years passed, so subtly that he hadn’t even noticed it rising up to swallow him. Growing long as his children died in their cradles. Growing long as he was stabbed to death in his sleep. Growing long as he was shot in the head by his own grandson. So long, and so cold.  
  
“No. It will not be... so bad a thing... to die, I think. Even after... what you’ve done to me. It hurts so. But I think you are right. It will be... easy.”  
  
The Exarch’s voice shook him from his reverie. He looked again at his captive. A stupid thing to say. He was done with this. He realized he had been done with it long ago. He did not want to hear another word from this man.  
  
“Then die, Exarch. You gentle fool. Go to your gods, and wait for your hero.” It would not be long now. The Warrior of Light was as good as dead themself, with the Light eating them from the inside out.   
  
The Exarch chuckled, as if he had made a joke. “You feel... too much, Emet-Selch.”  
  
“Yes. But not for you. Not for anyone on this shard, or any of your stars.” He was so angry he could feel his blood pumping fit to flow into the very air, a tiger’s heart pulsing against his skin. Had he been this fiery as an Amaurotian, all those eons ago? “Everything I feel for is far behind me.”  
  
The Crystal Exarch seemed to gain wind from somewhere, and spoke quickly. “Yes, and... yet you let it control you... so strongly. Look around you, at what you have made here. Terrible, but beautiful. It will never leave you. You could use that feeling... to connect with those you disdain, but instead—“  
  
“Will you shut up?” Emet-Selch yelled, and slammed his boot down on the Exarch’s right hand, the one tainted by the Tower. He heard bone crunching beneath his heel, and he pressed down harder, spurred, forcing his whole weight onto his leg. The nerve, to feed him such sanctimonious garbage, to keep flapping his lips when there was no point to it anymore. The Exarch’s answering scream was only an echo of what it had been. It nourished Emet-Selch, and he kept grinding his foot down more and more, until it seemed the leather met only solid rock.  
  
Whatever the Exarch had been saying died with the pain of his shattered hand, a pulpy mass beneath Emet-Selch’s heel. He wheezed. A surprise that he yet had breath in him.  
  
“You... are unfathomably...” But he could not finish the sentence. He was really going, now.  
  
“Yes, yes, unfathomably cruel and evil. You’re not the first to say it.” _Always the same complaints. Always_. He took his boot off the Exarch’s hand, nudging it away contemptuously. “Now. Off to the sleep you’re so certain you will enjoy.”  
  
“The Warrior... the Warrior of Light will...”  
  
Death, waiting for no man, sunk its icy claws into the Crystal Exarch, silencing him. The Miqo’te took one last heaving breath, then his eyes settled into stillness. He went limp. He died there, as calm and quiet as if he really had chosen that spot to lay down and rest. The blood had pooled into a small oval around his torso, hard to see now against the dark ground. A breeze from far off whistled by, warm and light compared to the gusts that had whipped against them earlier. It was gloriously quiet.  
  
“The Warrior of Light will not be far behind you,” said Emet-Selch, looking down on the body. “A mercy.” The Exarch’s face was peaceful, unpained. Emet-Selch gazed at it for a long while, and then, repulsed, stooped to yank the hood over the corpse’s head. He could not look one second more on that face, that contented expression.  
  
Would it not be a great comfort to die? To finally, truly die? He felt... strange. It occurred to him in that moment that he had never really envied anyone before. At least not in this life. He told himself the Exarch had not won.  
  
It availed him nothing.  
  
He straightened. The red anger was gone from him now, replaced just as quickly with a wash of sorrow, blues and grays. He felt the deep, sucking wound in his chest again, familiar and painful and warm in its constancy.  
  
The hero and their companions would be coming. Soon.  
  
Emet-Selch, fatigued to his very soul, turned away from the body. Unaware, unshaken, the plumes of aether continued to dance over the dying star.


End file.
